this downward motion
by roardraco
Summary: She knows better than anyone in this time exactly what he is going to become and it frightens her how he is straddling the line between Tom Riddle and Voldemort. Maybe there isn't even a line at all and this boy already is him under that beautifully pale skin. HIATUS AS OF 15 MARCH 2013.
1. revert

**this downward motion**

_revert_

* * *

"You're staring again."

She knows this without even looking up; she can feel his dark gaze searching her face for answers as it has done for the past three months.

"Can you blame me?" His voice is soft and sibilant, low with meaning and so very inviting, like honey and tea on a chilly winters day. Somehow whenever he opens his mouth, she half-expects the high cold voice that she has learned to fear and it never fails to rattle her that someone so heartbreakingly beautiful could have mutated into the nightmare that hung on the edges of the Wizarding World's collective consciousness.

"No, I suppose not," she admits quietly, her eyes still trained on the book in front of her, even though she has not been able to concentrate on it with the full force of his attention on her. But she will not look up.

He leans over the desk towards her and she tries not to flinch at his proximity. In the first few weeks that she'd been here, she'd found it near impossible to even pretend at liking him. Unfortunately for her though, by the time she gained control over herself, her initial open dislike and distrust piqued his interest and since then it has never wavered. She knew he longed to peel back the layers of her mind and see what secrets she hid. She knew now why he had begun to venture into Legilimency.

He taps his fingers on the edge of her thick tome, ignoring the whispers of other students whose attention they have captured with their own whispering.

"You arrive here, Miss Gray, with more fanfare than should be expected for a transfer student. Battered, bruised and _bleeding_ on the grounds the day before school starts. Dumbledore's obvious favour alone makes you quite a bit more than _interesting_, I would say. Your spellwork is second only to mine and your disdain for near everything I do makes me wonder what I ever did to offend you so. Have I _ever_ been less than cordial to you?"

She says nothing. Her lips press together, tightening slightly in a way that he does not miss. Reading her is so difficult; she is as evasive as the wind. Every time he thinks he has her figured out, she shifts and he is thrown again. It's as though she doesn't want him to unravel the mystery that is Hermione Gray and, of course, that makes him want it even more. She is utterly unique, unafraid to speak her mind and her _mind_ was something any witch or wizard would be proud to have. She cares little for gossip or other girlish pursuits, seeking out solitude in the same way he does.

"Or perhaps I'm being far too sensitive about this," he muses aloud. "Although I can't say that I really enjoy the frosty treatment you've been giving me since September. I'm only human."

She bites back a laugh. It sits in her throat bitter and caustic, the thought of how _inhumane_ he would come to be.

"Well, I apologise if I have caused you any offense."

His eyes flick over her, contemplative and so very heavy. She can feel his gaze boring into her, picking her apart, deconstructing her as her quill scratches across the parchment and she studiously keeps her gaze off him.

"Come now, Hermione. I think apologies require a little more sincerity than that."

He stretches out in front of her, his fingers laced behind his head as his shoes scuff hers too nonchalantly to have been by accident. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his tie loose around his neck and his hair mussed, as though he has run his hand through it absently. Tom is a study in perfection. And she is so intrigued, she wants to know him, wants to work through his intricacies. She wants to have his secrets laid bare before her, because this is not Voldemort, not yet. Hermione needs to see where Tom Riddle ends and _he _begins. This fascination is morbid and she shies away from it, shies away from _him_. It scares her a little. But her initial skittishness piqued his interest and now there is no shaking him.

For the first time since he sat down in front of her, she looks up, annoyance twisting her mouth. Her jaw tics. A flicker of triumph, ugly and raw, flashes in his eyes. He has made her façade crack, at least a little. It will only be a matter of time before he knows what she does, and it will be without the use of Legilimency too.

"I'm quite aware of social niceties, thank you, Tom," she replies coldly. "Though I'm not sure you do. I _was_ busy doing my Charms homework before you decided to strike up this conversation."

He holds his hands in front of him, palms outwards, an amused expression on his face. "Now, now, no need to lose your temper, Gray."

Tom receives a frosty glare that elicits a warm chuckle from him. She is too entertaining. He enjoys winding her up almost as much as he enjoys the task of unravelling her and all her secrets. This cat and mouse game is gratifying in the extreme.

"Really, Hermione, try not to make your dislike _so_ apparent. You're going to hurt my tender feelings."

With a huff of exasperation, she rises, gathers up her things and leaves. He is on her tail immediately, falling into step with her, his long graceful strides matching her hurried gait easily. She would never be able to outstrip him and besides better not to act any more like prey than she already has.

"Are you following me now?"

"I just so happened to heading back to _our_ Common Room, my fellow Slytherin," he teases lightly. "And I thought that perhaps I could walk you to dinner when you're done?"

Hermione shoots a tight smile in his direction, appraising him quickly as she does so. His smile is wide and inviting, eyes shining almost hopefully. He seems sincere enough. _Seems being the operative word, Hermione_. "As much as I appreciate your chivalry, Riddle, that won't be necessary."

A smirk settles his mouth in a curved line, his eyes shifting into something dark and shrewd. "If I didn't know better, Gray, I'd say you were going out of your way to avoid me."

She lets out another huff and rolls her eyes. "And you're going out of your way to seek me out."

"Perhaps I simply like you."

"Try again."

Tom shrugs his broad shoulders and his smirk widens, but when he speaks, there is a coldness that chills her to the bone and sets her nerves on edge. "Perhaps I'm curious. Perhaps I think you're hiding things from everyone here. Perhaps you're afraid of people finding out about your murky past."

Despite the fact that he has dressed his words up as conjectures, there is a finality to them that shakes Hermione to the core. She swallows hard, but continues walking as though he hasn't said anything that could incriminate her.

He is on her heels again, focussed on her in such a way that makes her want to burst out of her skin. "Your silence is telling, Hermione dear."

The password to the Slytherin Common Room comes out strangled and she realises, for the first time in weeks, she is flustered and pink with indignation. His triumphant grin follows her across the room and her throat is dry, her nerves shot.

She practically sprints away from him up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, the door banging shut behind her.

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Hermione does not come out for dinner.

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Or for breakfast the next morning.

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And meanwhile, the young Lord Voldemort waits, revelling in the knowledge that, in this castle that he knows best, there is nowhere she can go that he won't find her.

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	2. ripple

**this downward motion**

_ripple_

* * *

The entire castle is ablaze with a fervent Christmas spirit, as though trying to ward off the cloud that is Grindelwald's advance in Europe with festive cheer.

The same cannot be said of Hermione. This was going to be her first Christmas without Harry and Ron, her first Christmas since this era's Dumbledore gravely informed her that it was highly unlikely that they would find a way back to the future for her. The residue of the Time Turners had been broken just under two years ago in her time had clung to her and flung her back further than should have been possible. And there really was no quick fix, no magical solution for this problem. It would have to be the long road for her.

She is alone. An orphan, but not. Missing, but not. Hermione hates to think what her best friends would say when she showed up, fifty years older, wizened and weighed down by having had to live through three separate Wizarding Wars.

The windowpane is cold against her temple. Other students frolic outside in the snow, laughing and carefree. She feels so cut off from them, heavy as she is with the knowledge of the years to come, heavy as she is with the knowledge that the man who would tear many of their families apart was walking the castle corridors and they were none the wiser.

Even discounting that, it was so very difficult to connect with anyone. As it had been in her first year, she was ostracised for her uncommon intelligence and her penchant to be an insufferable know-it-all; despite her losses and the unfamiliar (and yet all too familiar) environment, some things never change. Boys don't spare her a second glance; she was after all still her mousy plain self with a head of rampant curls on top of it all. Girls resent her for Tom's apparent interest in her and only spare her the hexes and jinxes because she doesn't pay his 'attentions' mind.

"It's a beautiful day out, you know. Why are you wasting it watching everyone else have fun?"

She turns her head, already knowing who it is.

Tom Riddle strolls towards her, his hands in his pockets, his bookbag secured over his shoulder. There is intent in his gait that instantly puts her on her guard. He has been a constant presence at her side since he subtly accused her of hiding things from everyone the previous week.

There is a part of her that she doesn't like to acknowledge that is pleased by the attentions the future Dark Lord is paying her, but her sensible, rational side overrides those nonsensical notions. She is Hermione Granger. She is a good girl. She follows the rules. She most certainly does _not _lose her cool over good-looking boys, let alone the good-looking boy who would become so twisted that he would attempt to kill an infant and tear a community asunder by encouraging bigotry and prejudiced views.

"Still there under all that hair, Gray?" he asks, a wry twisting of his lips lifting his features into something quite roguish. "Or do I have to go searching for your wits in those curls?"

"If you've come here to insult me, Riddle, you're going to have to be a lot more creative than attacking my hair. I can assure you, I've heard it all."

"Why would I do that?" A look of surprise that looks so natural slides over; a mask, she knows. "I quite like your hair. It's wild and untameable. Just like the girl who owns it."

His flirting has become near intolerable. She knows he enjoys flustering her, toying with her. What she doesn't know is when the playfulness will end and his claws will dig into her and try to rip her secrets from her very flesh. Hermione tries to watch his eyes, searching for a red gleam to warn her, to give her enough time to flee. But he is the master of deception and she can only see the dark wizard he will become in the moments when he turns his head, eyes calculating and cold. The shift from Tom Riddle, the brilliant orphan, to the beginnings of Lord Voldemort, the depraved psychopath, is a subtle one, and not something she really wants to be close enough to see; she'd far rather observe this from a distance.

Hermione pulls a face to which he laughs and seats himself beside her. The windowsill isn't near long enough to accommodate them both comfortably and she ends up jammed against the wall and his thigh.

Her heart begins thrumming frantically in her throat, a mixture of fear and a little curiosity and more girlish excitement than she should probably allow herself to feel. She quashes it down and averts her gaze. There are still students outside in the gentle snowfall and she longs for simpler days, Harry and the Weasleys engaged in a snowball fight as she watched on, skiing with her parents, receiving Christmas jumpers from Mrs Weasley.

"Thinking of home?" he probes a moment later. He does not miss the way she stiffens. But of course he does not know why. His orders to have Dumbledore murdered had officially, in her time, ensured that home would never be the same again, not when she had _Obliviated_ her parents and packed them off to Australia for their protection.

Home is somewhere in the future, belonging to a little girl named Hermione Granger and that girl is not her anymore and never will be again. Her mouth is dry. Her eyes are trained on the people outside. To meet his gaze would be stupid. He would be able to see right through her. He would see all the accusation in her eyes and she will not risk that.

She swallows down the lump in her throat and nods, still not making eye contact.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Tom watches her, trying to gauge her reaction. Her far-off expression, the way her throat bobs as if swallowing tears; she has been through something, possibly the something that dropped her unconscious in the grounds for Apollyon Pringle to find. He feels no remorse for causing her poorly hidden distress. He wants _answers_, wants to know what she knows, if there is _anything_ that she knows about him that has caused her to keep him at arm's length when the entirety of the female population of the castle would kill to be in her position. He would kill for her secrets.

But he must still maintain the mask he has created for himself, at least for now. He must be the kind, considerate and handsome Head Boy so well-liked by everyone, even if she doesn't quite seem convinced by it.

He touches her shoulder, places a firm grip on her. He squeezes once before just keeping his hand there. "Forgive me. I seem to have upset you. I did not mean to pry. That is to say, I _was_ curious, but I never meant for—"

She cuts him off with a pained half-smile, her eyes flicking to the contact point between her body and his long pale pianist's fingers. "Quite all right. I'm sure you didn't."

Hermione's voice is light and airy, every trace of her distress is gone, except for in her eyes. They are as haunted as the day she arrived. She gets up to leave, but his fingers close around her wrist.

"Gray—" He pauses, considering his words carefully. "_Hermione_, I truly am sorry. You seem to have gone through a lot. My last intention was to make it any worse for you. However, if you should ever need a willing ear, you do know where to find me."

Her lips twist, amused by something, but he is unsure by what. "Taking your Head duties rather seriously, are you? I had no idea the portfolio extended to student liaisons."

"Headmaster Dippet says that I may be the best Head Boy Hogwarts will ever see," he admits, smugness filling his insides although he does his best to appear modest. "I had best live up to the expectations."

"That's a tall ask, for anyone really." Hermione murmurs, her eyes searching his face. There is something in her scrutiny that makes him feel naked and vulnerable, stripped of everything that makes him able to mask his true self. This is how he feels when Dumbledore turns that infuriatingly knowing gaze on him.

"Good thing I'm not just anyone then, Gray?" he replies softly, a sliver of ice finding its way into his tone despite himself. Tom is not usually on the defence and he is uncomfortable with the way this girl is looking at him, like she _knows_ and she doesn't approve in the slightest.

Hermione smiles absently, her eyes already moving past him to a group of first years eagerly pulling on mittens and scarves before braving the cold outside. "Good thing," she agrees.

She walks away from him, her unruly brown curls bouncing with every step. He tries not to lose his temper at the abrupt dismissal in her eyes, in her voice, but his jaw clenches and his lips press together in displeasure.

Oh he will be keeping a closer eye on this Hermione Gray. He promises himself that she will regret dismissing Lord Voldemort; she will regret her indirect challenges; she will regret angering him with so little ammunition.

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And above all, she will regret looking at him with those haunted brown eyes as though he was the very one to wound her so.

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* * *

Reviews are much appreciated! Drop me a line if you liked. Or if you didn't. Either way.


	3. static

**Note: **Reading experience will be greatly enhanced by listening to **Homesick **by **Sleeping At Last.**

* * *

**this downward motion**

_static_

* * *

Winter break passes without incident. Hermione spends most of her time in the library, immersed in her schoolwork. She does her level best to keep Tom out of her mind. For now at least he can do nothing to her, not without rousing Dumbledore's suspicions.

And for his part, he keeps his distance. She begins to feel (for the first time since time itself sucked her up and spat her out in the 1940's) a sense of routine, a sliver of purpose. She will study for her NEWTs; she will finish school; she will find a small job somewhere that keeps her out of the History books and she will stay away from Tom Riddle.

The fact is that she could tripwire the entire future by simply being here. The wall of dominoes could fall and all it would take was one slip of the tongue, just one brush of Tom's mind against hers. Dumbledore warned her of this, that night in his office, and she took his warnings to heart, as second nature.

So she will watch, she will grow old, knowing that somewhere her younger self is running around getting into scrapes with two boys who will become her very best friends, and one of those who will never quite become any more than that. Hermione can feel the hollow within her growing. She is going to see her friends die again: Sirius, Fred, Remus and Tonks.

No. Hermione shakes her head. It won't be for years now. She must live, for the sake of those she left behind. She must return to Harry and Ron and explain what exactly the gold light was that enveloped her mid-battle.

She wets her lips and peers down at the book in her lap, her eyes sliding across the page. It's getting late and still, all the girls that share the dormitory with her are in the common room, being entertained by the Slytherin seventh years and fawning over their Head Boy. Hermione had no compunctions about not joining them, and they didn't press her either, willing as they are to let the 'odd bird' keep to herself. Tom's dark gaze slid over her appraisingly before turning his attentions back to Abraxas and Cygnus' antics.

And here she sits, alone in the chilly dormitory, under the blankets with her dressing gown about her shoulders, training her eyes on the detailed diagrams in her Transfigurations textbook, her lips skipping over the syllables of the words she mumbles under her breath.

"Still awake are you?"

The sneer is not unfamiliar and she sighs, preparing herself for poisonous comments that come from the one person meaner than Pansy Parkinson, her great-aunt Iris.

"Yes, hello Iris," she mumbles, thumb caught between her teeth.

"Didn't see you at dinner; upset again that Tom is ignoring you?"

Iris' cronies titter. She watches Hermione in the mirror as she begins to unpin her long dark hair from the severe chignon she pulls it into. Were it not for the over-pronounced upturn of her nose and the sour twist of her mouth, Hermione would have thought her rather pretty. But Parkinson's vicious delight at putting her down because of Tom's perceived interest in her makes it rather difficult to be forgiving about appearances.

"Tom's been ignoring me? That's good. Makes a nice change from being followed everywhere." The spell in front of her is complex. Human transfiguration is no walk in the park and done incorrectly it could earn her a bed in the Hospital Wing.

Iris glowers at her, but Hermione pays her no heed. Months of this venomous treatment have made her immune to it. At first, she let it get under her skin, but as the weeks drew on and she and Iris butted heads (very much in the same way she and Pansy did in the future) more often than not, she resolved to take the more sage path. She quickly found ignoring the Pureblood heiress took little to no effort. The words that fell from her lips were dull and whatever nasty magical surprises Iris tried to leave for her were unimaginative and easily reversed.

"You think you're so much better than the rest of us, don't you, Gray?" she sneers.

Druella Rosier and Cascadia Selwyn fall silent, watching their leader turn her cold eyes on the small, mousy bookworm sitting in her bed.

"I really don't know what he sees in you."

Only now does she have Hermione's full attention and she feels the full force of the girl's amusement. Her thin pink lips are pulled up at the corners and she shakes her head of magnificently bushy curls as though she doesn't know quite what to make of Iris' oncoming tirade.

"Jealous, Parkinson?" She licks the pad of her index finger and turns the page, successfully infuriating Iris further with her apparent disinterest. "Funny that; considering you've already got your betrothal to Avery lined up. Yet here you are chasing after a man who would never look twice at you."

Druella gasps and Cascadia barely stifles a hearty guffaw. And Iris has her wand out pointed directly at Hermione. The girl lifts one dark brow mockingly. "You really should learn to shut that big mouth of yours. I know how many people would just _love_ to do it for you."

Hermione is unperturbed. Her wand is warm against her hand, under the heavy tome on her lap. Besides, she has spent a year on the run from Death Eaters, she has saved escaped convicts and condemned hippogriffs, she has fought a three-headed dog and she is the brightest witch of her age; whatever insignificant spell Iris Parkinson may attempt to throw her way will be countered by a mere flick of her fingers. No need for wands or spells with this witch who pays more attention to her physical appearance than she does her studies.

"Iris, you shouldn't," murmurs Druella worriedly as she tugs on the sleeve of the girl's robe. "Slughorn would never believe—"

"Right, of course. I forgot that she's a kiss-arse on top of it all," she mocks as she pockets her wand, her gaze imperious.

The three girls turn their backs on Hermione, disappearing into the bathroom on the far-end to begin their nightly toilette.

She lets out an undignified snort and begins to pack away her things, placing them carefully in her trunk and then sealing it with a powerful charm to prevent anything suddenly going missing.

With a heavy sigh, she draws the emerald-green curtains of her four-poster and casts a _muffliato_ over the bed before settling in and pulling the covers over her.

This is the part of the day she hates most, these minutes before sleep. Every dark thought, every hopeless, wishful, _painful_ thought darts in, casting shadows on every corner of her mind.

There is Harry, his laugh, his rush-into-the-fray mentality, and his unwillingness to put more effort into his Astronomy essays. Harry's loyalty, his dry wit, the way the light glinted off his glasses, his warm arms around her that night when Ron up and left them.

And there is Ron and that kiss in the Room of Requirement, the furore of the battle around them non-existent. Frustration and longing and anger rolled into one during her sixth year at this very school in the future, in _her _past. How excited he would get the morning before a Quidditch match, how _utterly _ridiculous he looked in his mouldy old dress robes at the Yule Ball, the way he looked at her in her own periwinkle robes.

She rolls over, teardrops clinging to her dark lashes. She doesn't try to stifle her crying. Since moving into the Slytherin girls' dormitory with the three furies, she has cried herself to sleep every night. And every night since, she has cast a muffling charm to allow herself to cry in peace.

Before long her pillow is soaked. It has only been four months since she last saw them, but it will be another fifty years until she does again. What frightens her most is not what has happened, but what _will_ and how powerless she will be to stop so many deaths. The body count burdens her and she knows that no matter how far she runs, or how hard she tries to put her past behind her, it will come back to haunt her as the future.

Hermione rolls over once more, her knuckles white against her mouth as she sobs. This is too much for any one person to bear and she can understand quite acutely the heaviness in every one of Harry's footsteps in the two years since Sirius' death. It is the same that she carries with her now.

_At least Harry had support. _

But she is alone. Truly alone. There is no one to turn over and whisper to in the blue hours of the morning when she cannot sleep and the battle plagues her dreams. She cannot confide in Dumbledore at the risk of jeopardizing the timeline in which he will play such an integral role. Her housemates are abominable and the other houses are not as welcoming because of the green and silver trim of her robes.

Even in those first few weeks in her first year when her social ineptitude had made it near impossible to befriend anyone, she had her parents. Her dependable, loving parents who did their very best to immerse themselves in their daughter's strange new world.

Now her official records, created by the Department of Mysteries and Ministry officials with Dumbledore's help, list her as orphaned, home-schooled by her magical parents until a tragic accident took them from her. It hurts every time she thinks on it, but they assured her it was for the best.

To them, these bureaucratic pencil pushers who have reduced her to nothing more than a thick file locked away down a dark corridor, and to anyone who cares enough to look, she is a nameless witch without a past.

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And sometimes she thinks, in the moments when she is at her most despondent, she doesn't really have much of a future either.

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* * *

Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Lovely Rain Dancer.


	4. walpurgis

**this downward motion**

_walpurgis_

* * *

The Slytherin Common Room begins to empty just after midnight. Iris and her harpies are the first to leave and with them, the younger girls too say goodnight. Without the buffer of the girls, the younger boys leave as well, ill at ease being around their intimidating upperclassmen. The seventh years cast notice-me-not spells around them, topping them off with a _muffliato_ strong enough to buffer even the most raucous of parties.

Tom is seated in the plush sofa furthest from the glowing green flames of the fire in the hearth. All the young men wait with bated breath for him to begin.

"It has come to my attention that some of my Knights have been acting out of turn."

The statement is loaded and every single one of them is grateful for the fact that tonight's meeting is being held indoors and not in the Forbidden Forest, where no one would be able to hear their screams. For now at least, they are safe.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about what happened to Nathan Potter, now," His eyes flick over their tense faces before finally settling on Camdyn Avery who is trying his best not to look like he is going to flee. "would you, Camdyn?"

"Uh—I—," he stammers.

"Yes?"

"It was just a tripping jinx."

His protest is weak and his next words are caught in his throat as Tom's gaze turns hard.

"Down a flight of stairs. Nathan sustained seven fractures; I'll have you know."

"I'm already doing seven weeks of detention," Avery mumbled under his breath. "That old codger couldn't wait to lay into me when he saw what I did to his _precious little_ _Gryffindor."_

"It's not Dumbledore you need to worry about, Avery."

The boy in question stiffens even more and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He is all at once aware of every breath his lungs draw, the clenched fists on his knees. Camdyn swallows hard and tries his hardest to look contrite.

"My lord, I—" He swallows again and his throat is so dry. Everyone's gaze is heavy on him and he wants to sink into the floor, run away, disappear, _anything_ not to experience the Cruciatus at his lord's hand. Numb, he kneels, his head bowed. Tom studies him carefully, noting the way his hands shake with no small amount of relish. "I did not think. Forgive me, my lord."

For a moment, no one even breathes. Their Lord is changeable and is as volatile as an open flame. It was not by any means unusual for one of his followers to come under fire for his transgressions.

"And so you are, Avery," he says softly, dismissing him with a sharp flick of the wrist. The chastened boy retakes his seat quickly and stays silent, grateful that he managed to escape without being burned. His hands never stop shaking. _For now, at least._

"Can't say I blame him for what he did." Cygnus cuts in with an apologetic glance at Tom. "Potter was casting aspersions on your character for consorting with the likes of us. I suppose he is under the impression that we will corrupt you. Or that we already have."

Tom smirks at that, amused, but pleased. It means that his mask is still intact. "What more can you expect from a Gryffindor?"

"That Gray girl though," Abraxas is quick to offer his opinion in the hopes of currying favour, "she doesn't seem to much like you, my lord. Sometimes I wonder if she's a Slytherin at all!"

Lestrange sits upright and clears his throat. Eyes are instantly drawn to him. When this irreverent, _lazy _boy speaks, people are always startled. Lord Voldemort himself is a little surprised, but he does not show it.

"What is it, Faustus?"

Faustus Lestrange wets his lips before speaking, his blank stare still unnerving to most of the other boys who have known him for the better part of their seven years at Hogwarts.

"My lord, should you feel that she needs a _reminder_ of her place, I'd be glad to be the one to do it. This sort of disrespectfulness towards you must be rooted out."

Murmurs ripple through the group. Faustus' concerns are not unwarranted. Hermione Gray has never made a secret of her distrust for their leader and though she is never outright unfriendly anymore, they do not forget those first slights against him. Tom holds up one elegant hand, looking bored the entire time.

"You should not worry about Miss Gray, Lestrange," he replies coolly. "One girl's dislike for me isn't enough cause to break cover and expose the Knights so soon."

His gaze pins his follower in place, reminding him, _warning _him not to step out of line without his permission or suffer the consequences. The other boy nods once before leaning back into the sofa again, his arms crossed. He is suitably chastened and Tom is well satisfied.

Abraxas' face is pinched, irritated that Faustus so easily captured the attention he had to work extremely hard for. He is under no illusions that Tom doesn't keep him around for his vast fortune, but Abraxas Malfoy knows how to back the winning horse and he wants to make certain that Riddle remembers whose coffers were the deepest when it came to their cause.

"Understand this, I want no attention drawn to us, for the moment at least. Gentlemen, you are my inner circle and it is your duty as the Knights of Walpurgis to always keep our noble pursuit foremost in mind. Do nothing that will jeopardise it. That most certainly includes _vigilante_ behaviour."

His gaze settles on Cygnus seated nearest the fire. The dark-haired normally mischievous-faced boy has a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Any thoughts, Black?"

Cygnus half-smirks. "Just wondering what Gray's problem is. She's not very sociable is she? And she's a regular fish out of water in our house. Dunno what the Sorting Hat was thinking, sorting her into Slytherin. She's more of a Ravenclaw, or a Gryffindor if you ask me."

"The Sorting Hat wouldn't have placed her here if she wasn't supposed to be." Tom points out, already having sifted through this very idea himself. "Personally, I think that you just haven't seen her more cunning and sly side yet. And that, Cygnus, makes her just as much a Slytherin as the rest of us."

Black's smirk widens. "Did you know that people are also saying that you two might be _involved?_"

Tom stares him down, unamused. The smirk slowly slides from Cygnus' mouth, leaving a stuff downturn and wary eyes. "Of course, I'm aware of that. Though I could hardly be bothered by idle gossip, particularly the kind that holds not one grain of truth."

"Of course, my lord. Silly of me to think—"

He dismisses him and a few minutes later he adjourns the meeting when his Knights no longer bring anything new to the table and he is quite done reaming them out.

As he climbs into bed later that night, so late that it should really be considered morning, he thinks on his words, turns them over in his mind. He alone can see the weight of Hermione's secrets on her shoulders. She has hidden it quite expertly from the others.

But not him. Never him. He knows these sorts of things about people. Tom Riddle sees the side of people they try to hide. It's an uncommon gift and he has had such fun exploiting it.

The problem though, lay in the fact that Hermione saw straight through his charm. Any hopes that he could bend her to his will without her noticing have flown beyond the horizon. She will fight him every step of the way rather than submit to him.

He is quite surprised to find that intrigues him more than anything else ever has.

The rest of the night is spent rolling over and then rolling over again, closing his eyes and opening them to find the shadows on the ceiling have moved and the dawn is drawing close.

Tom knows his restless night shows on his face, in the shadows around his eyes and the peaked appearance of his skin, but as the studying for the NEWTs will soon begin in earnest for the more diligent students, he is willing to let them write it off as that.

When Hermione enters the Great Hall and finds a place down the table from him, he is mollified to see that she looks as exhausted as he does. She butters her toast and chews slowly, idly running her finger on the rim of her goblet of pumpkin juice. Her eyes are closed and her wild mane looks even more unmanageable today.

She doesn't speak to anyone. She doesn't make eye contact. The owl post arrives and she pays the barn owl for her copy of the _Daily Prophet_, spreads it before her, and scans the headlines_. _The same routine every day.

Every day Tom watches and takes note, trying to find the chink in her armour so he can bring the real Hermione Gray to light and inspect her, take her apart and work out how her intricate gears and cogs fit and spin together to form the most singularly brilliant mind of the most singularly brilliant witch with whom he has ever come into contact.

After her second slice of toast and her steaming bowl of porridge, she will shoulder her bulging book bag and disappear down the hallways to read in a deserted classroom before lessons begin, still without looking anyone in the eye, skirting around them as though they are furniture.

He thinks he knows her routine so well and when she looks up to meet his intense gaze, understandably, he is startled. Her doe-brown eyes are red-rimmed, not unusual, but they hold the unmistakable spark of a challenge. Riddle can see the tension in her jaw, the tautness in the muscles of her slender neck. Hermione looks like she is ready.

Tom smiles, the corners of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly. She quickly averts her gaze, swallowing hard. After ten days of steering clear from the unnerving witch, he is ready too. This push and pull game of theirs can start again.

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And Tom Riddle is determined to win.

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But what he fails to comprehend is how far Hermione Granger will go to protect the secrets that aren't hers to tell.

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Hugs and kisses to my phenomenal beta, Eni, who ensures my writing is good enough to see the light of day. And thank you to everyone who favourited and alerted and reviewed!

More interaction to come, just hang in there! Don't forget to drop me a line on the way out. It really makes my day. :)


	5. hushed

Note: Reposting this chapter with some edits and added dialogue and introspection.

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**this downward motion**

_hushed_

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He catches up with her in the corridor, after Defence Against The Dark Arts. Hermione bites her lip as he easily falls into step with her. She knows why he's seeking her out again. Of course, she hadn't meant to glare daggers at the man who was the reason for all her problems and her heartache, but after her uneasy and fitful sleep and the _nightmares_ of Tom Marvolo Riddle peeling away to reveal Lord Voldemort, she could hardly help the scrutiny over her morning porridge.

"You don't look at all well, Gray," he murmurs, walking altogether too close for her comfort.

"Neither do you," she counters, offering him a weak smile before asking, more out of her ingrained politeness than anything else, "Studying late?"

_Funny thing that, being polite to the future Dark Lord._

"Naturally. One can never start too early." He smiles easily. To the untrained eye of the students milling about the corridor around them, they were having a civil conversation. But those eyes would notice, if they looked just a bit harder, that Hermione is stiff and that her smile is faked. And Tom's presence is overbearing, stifling. She feels like a prisoner, escorted everywhere by an over-attentive gaoler.

"Of course, and we all know how our Head Boy must live up to everyone's expectations. Ten Outstandings and nothing less for his NEWTs."

Tom laughs; a hypnotic sound really, if she were anyone other than level headed Hermione Granger.

"I could say the same for you, Gray. You almost match me in every class. And you've given me quite the run for my money in the past few months. Slughorn was beginning to wonder if I would lose my place to you. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded too much, however. You are, after all, in his house. It wouldn't be too much of a loss."

Hermione is silent, her mind firmly on her quickening pace. She wants to leave Tom Riddle far, far behind, but there is no chance of that. They both have Charms now and after will be Potions. They share every class (Divination excepted where she opted instead for Muggle Studies). He will find her in their Common Room, in the library, at their table for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"There was of course, no chance of _that _happening."

She bristles, some long buried remnant of indignation flaring to life at the disdain in his tone. Hermione Granger's pride lies in her unparalleled intellect and she is _still_ the brightest witch of her age, under the guise of mild-mannered, quiet Miss Hermione Gray.

"So certain of yourself, are you, Riddle?" she retorts, her hand clenching tighter around the strap of her book bag. "You sure you aren't just filled with hot air?"

"Hermione dear, I think I've demonstrated my prowess well enough. There is no room for doubt about my abilities. But there is no shame in second place," he says smugly, eyeing her sidelong. "Especially not if I hold the top spot."

She smirks. "Your arrogance will be your undoing."

"Planning on dethroning me, Gray?" Her smirk is mirrored by his own winning smile. "Perhaps I underestimated you."

"As everyone tends to do," she replies with a shrug. "You being the least of them."

A twinkle appears in his eye and he chuckles. "Iris trying to hex you out of my life again?"

"Of course. She seems to think that because you and I argue in class, are always paired together for assignments, we must be secretly involved." Hermione rolls her eyes before shaking her head and sighing. "I can't remember the last time I was able to get into bed without worrying about finding frogspawn between the sheets."

"I must say though, Defence is infinitely more entertaining with her constantly trying to hex you."

"You'd think she'd have cottoned on to the fact that she is simply _not_ going to be able to hit me by now. Iris is a _very _poor duellist." She could barely keep the scorn from her tone. "Her form is sloppy and she is just not quick enough."

Tom presses his lips together, looking like he is trying hard not to burst out laughing. Hermione turns her head to see Iris marching past them, her nose in the air with Druella and Cascadia at her heels.

Immediately, she flushes, more out of anger at Riddle than out of embarrassment for being caught insulting Iris by the girl herself. So far, she's stayed out of trouble, never confronting Iris too directly, never showing her too much dislike (which Hermione had in spades for this Parkinson ancestor) and Tom has gone and ruined that with a few cleverly chosen words.

"If I didn't know better, Tom, I'd say you did that on purpose." She _knows_ he did. And the suspicious slant of her eyes shows _him_ that she knows he did.

"Why I would never!" he spluttered, his own eyes still twinkling mischievously. Besides, she knows better than to take him seriously. "Although I must congratulate you on alienating your dorm mates even more. Sometimes I wonder at your complete inability interacting with anyone besides me!"

"Huh?"

She stops in her tracks, ignoring the glares and mutterings of the students who have to weave around her, and stares after him, mouth wide open. He turns to survey her. His lovely mouth twists and he's trying hard not to laugh again.

"Really, Hermione, have you not heard the rumours? We are clandestine lovers after all." He raises one elegant brow at her bemusement.

"Rumours? Are _more_ people talkingabout us?" She is aghast. This is the last thing she needed. As far as she can remember, Harry had never once mentioned Lord Voldemort having something as _mundane _as lady friends. Hermione sincerely hopes the timeline she is trying so hard to preserve hasn't been derailed by something so ridiculous as rumour mongering.

"It's true that many don't place much stock by it, but Iris supposes that must be the reason I pay you any attention. That, or you might have spiked my morning pumpkin juice with a very lethal dose of Amortentia which everyone so happens to know you brew as well as I do."

"This is, this is just— _Great._" She runs a hand through her hair before picking up her pace in a last-ditch attempt at shaking him, which does not work as he is matching her stride for stride. "I don't need these kinds of silly distractions."

Tom's expression morphs into one of mock-hurt. "I'm a silly distraction to you?"

"The very worst kind," she snipes, irritated now, pushing past him into the classroom. "You never let me study in peace, you constantly argue with me in class and wherever I turn, there you are, dogging my steps as if you have nothing better to do!"

Hermione drops her books onto the desk with a little more force than necessary, scowling when Tom takes his customary seat beside her.

"Come now, Gray, I thought we'd been over this. We're in the same house. We take the same classes. Of _course_ I'm always going to be around." He sounds almost disapproving and it takes everything in her not to roll her eyes.

"That's not what I mean and you know it," she retorts, turning from him and glaring holes into the wood of her desk. Tom observes her with a smirk, propping his chin on his fists.

"You always seem so uncomfortable around me," he notes. "Does attention really unnerve you so much?"

_Just yours._

"No," she hedges, "that's not it."

"Then what is?"

Fortunately, she is spared the full brunt of what looked to be the beginnings of an interrogation. More students stream in, a few of them, girls mostly, asking after his health and commandeering their Head Boy's attention with idle chitchat. He tolerates the conversation seemingly good-naturedly. But the constant glances in her direction show her that she hasn't shaken him for long. There is _that _conversation he is dying to have with her.

He really does look tired, she thinks as she studies his milk-pale face. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes. Hermione briefly wonders how long he stayed up thinking up ways to ply her for information.

It occurs to her that it may well even be the horcrux he recently created that is making him look so ill. She isn't aware of the exact machinations of the task, but she had to consider the idea that splitting the soul wasn't good for the body in the same way that it wasn't good for the psyche.

The thought makes bile rise in her throat and she coughs it down.

Venusta Hitchins, the elderly Charms professor, is still busy organising herself, waving a wand at the board to wipe it clean of the notes scribbled there by the floating piece of chalk and then at the stack of papers on the shelf behind her which turns out to be their essays from the previous week.

The sheets of parchment separate from each other and float to their respective students. Hermione smiles when she sees the perfect score circled with a flourish. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth though when Tom leans back and she catches a glimpse of his own perfect score. She will not deny that she has become competitive; antagonistic in the only way she can be when it comes to the young Lord Voldemort.

She prepares herself for the lesson, which turns out to be simple enough: taking notes on the correct casting of the Protean charm which she had long ago mastered (in another life in a happier time when things were not easy but they were _better_).

Hermione steadfastly ignores Tom's sidelong glances and the smirk on his face and pays her full attention to the kindly witch who she knows will be replaced in the near future by a little half-goblin who will teach her such wonderful things.

The differences between this Hogwarts and the one she knew still perplex her in the most unexpected of moments. There are many times she walks into Transfigurations anticipating seeing Minerva McGonagall at the front of the classroom. Dippet's place at the centre of the teacher's table is something else that still makes her blink when she sees Dumbledore seated beside him, unnaturally off-centre.

As much of a haven as this was to her in her younger years, she wants nothing more than to escape and make a small niche for herself in the world. Hermione wants to create new memories instead of being haunted by the ghosts of people that have not yet been born.

Class ends sooner than she expects and with a jolt she realises that Tom is standing up next to her, packing away his own things. He waits for her outside, waving off his Slytherin housemates when they look at him questioningly, which attracts some students' attention and makes her glower at him.

"You're being such a prat," she informs him roundly as they make their way to the dungeons. "I don't remember signing up for an escort."

Tom grins. His smile is so disarming and she feels warm from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet, despite the dank chill that permeates the lower floors. "Head Boy, at your service."

"I don't see you offering your services to any other students, _Head Boy_," she mutters.

"Ah, but that's because you have the benefit of my undivided attention," he teases. "Smile, Hermione; there are so many girls who would love to be in your position."

"I don't doubt it. But what I do want to know is why _I_ seem to have your undivided attention." She pauses and does her best to make her next line seem theatrical. "Oh, Merlin, _please_ don't tell me you've gotten it into your head that you fancy me."

"And if I have?" he asks, his eyes glinting shrewdly. "Would that really be so bad?"

_Yes. _

"I suppose not. But I'm not interested," she points out. "NEWTs are just around the corner and I can't afford to get distracted by every boy who decides that I'm his flavour of the month."

"So there have been _other_ boys besides me? Why, Hermione, I had no idea you got around. I was inclined to believe I was the only one who had your esteem."

Hermione throws her hands up in frustration. _What _on earth is going on? She is almost certain she'd been dropped into a parallel universe because this _charming,_ good-looking teenaged Dark Lord is flirting mercilessly and it is so damned hard to evade him.

"_No, _Tom," she replies hotly, "you're the only one who seems to be persistent enough to chase after the frosty new girl. And I _still_ don't understand why!"

"Because I want to know _why_ she's so frosty. I want to know why she always looks at everyone like she knows something _more_. I want to know how she became so _good _at magic with only informal teaching. You see, this girl _fascinates _me. She's such a mystery. And I have always enjoyed mysteries."

"Don't go chasing after things that are really none of your business," she snaps; the words flood her mouth and she can't hold them back. "I didn't come to this school so I could have my life picked apart and gossiped about."

"Then why are you here, Hermione?" he asks softly, his eyes are bright with the promise of the truths in her head. He wants them out of her _so badly_ that it sometimes distracts him from his own tasks and duties.

Hermione blinks, suddenly aware of how much she is blurting out to this dangerous boy. "I'm here for the house-elves' cooking, what else?"

He laughs, but the good humour is only painted on his lips. The rest of his face is unnervingly empty of emotion.

"Your evasion just shows me that I'm asking all the right questions."

She smiles, sliding on her mask of indifferent serenity. "Perhaps, but questions don't always get answered."

"I've always been pretty good at finding answers. It doesn't matter how hard or long I have to dig for it."

He grips her arm for a moment, stilling her just before she darts into the warm safety of the Potions classroom. Her gaze immediately shoots downward and she shakes him off quickly as though she has been burned.

"And I _will_ find them. I always do."

She appraises him for a few moments. He stares right back; unfazed by the way she is searching his face.

"I suppose the request for you to respect my privacy will fall on deaf ears?" Hermione asks sourly.

Tom offers her a secretive smile and opens the door for her.

The entire lesson is spent in silence. Hermione chances a few surreptitious glances at the statuesque boy beside her, trying to figure out what he is planning behind that unreadable mask of his.

She does not pay much attention to Slughorn and it is only when he calls out her name in tandem with Riddle's that she realises that the next assignment will see her partnered with the infuriating, _deadly _Head Boy.

Slughorn announces the specifics of the task while biting into a golden piece of crystallised pineapple: a research essay on the medicinal uses of plants of the Scottish Highlands due in two weeks complete with a practical on a surprise potion.

Hermione is stiff in her seat, her knuckles white as they clutch the quill with which she is hurriedly taking down the instructions.

She does not know how much it will take her to keep up this pretence, when all she wants to do is cast the one Unforgivable that will save countless lives. This insignificant little assignment will place Tom even closer to her now that he has a legitimate excuse to seek her out.

Hermione prays to the God of a long-forgotten childhood for mercy, for strength, for patience.

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Beside her, the Head Boy in question smiles.

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Thank you Eni for doing a wonderful job with this chapter's beta! Personally, this is my favourite chapter so far. As my darling so adequately put it: _You make it so hard to be wary of Tom, you really do, because one moment you have me thinking "No, fuck, okay, scary as hell" and then the next you have me thinking "10/10"._

Thoughts?

**NOTE: Chapter 6 has been taken down for intense revision. As of 15 March 2013, I am on extended hiatus. Maybe when I come back, people will learn that talking shit from behind the little grey icon is the crappiest thing they can do to a writer. Seriously, whoever those wankers were, I hope Satan roasts you for being the little shit you are.**


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